


i can't fix what was done to you (but i'll shield you from the rain)

by coreoftheabyss



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, F/F, Gen, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, Light Angst, POV Sameen Shaw, Sameen Shaw-centric, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:54:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23531926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coreoftheabyss/pseuds/coreoftheabyss
Summary: The first time Shaw sees him after she escapes Samaritan’s stronghold in South Africa, John is being shot at, so she does what any good partner does, and takes out her gun. A few bullets in some knees and John’s assailants have all dropped to the ground, giving him a clear sight of her.He’s pointing a gun at her. The safety is off, and from this distance, he won’t miss. Honestly, she can’t blame him.  As non-threatening as possible, Shaw clicks the safety back on her gun and raises her hands. She knows she won’t win if John goes on the offensive, so she pointedly nods at the bodies on the ground, a sort of laughable indication about timing.
Relationships: John Reese & Sameen Shaw, Root | Samantha Groves/Sameen Shaw
Comments: 7
Kudos: 98





	i can't fix what was done to you (but i'll shield you from the rain)

The first time Shaw sees him after she escapes Samaritan’s stronghold in South Africa, John is being shot at, so she does what any good partner does, and takes out her gun. A few bullets in some knees and John’s assailants have all dropped to the ground, giving him a clear sight of her. 

He’s pointing a gun at her. The safety is off, and from this distance, he won’t miss. Honestly, she can’t blame him. As non-threatening as possible, Shaw clicks the safety back on her gun and raises her hands. She knows she won’t win if John goes on the offensive, so she pointedly nods at the bodies on the ground, a sort of laughable indication about timing. 

John doesn’t move, just stares at her a bit, mentally evaluating. He doesn’t lower his gun, but he doesn’t disarm her either, and they’re at a bit of a stalemate that’s not really a stalemate at all. Slowly, John takes his right hand and flicks the comm in his ear on, and Shaw breathes in a little relief. She knows John wouldn’t voluntarily tell Root that he killed her.

-

She holds out her gun to him as he finishes the call. He raises an eyebrow, but takes it all the same. It’s a peace offering, and they both enjoy the irony, but Shaw knows John will be more assured about Root’s and Harold’s safety if she is not armed. 

John doesn’t take her to the subway, but he does take her to his apartment. It’s a stupid move, she thinks, one that could easily blow his cover identity. But Shaw knows that John would rather expose himself rather than Finch, and if she remembered correctly, Root doesn’t get to have a permanent residence. And, she concludes, the safe house must have something there that they don’t want Samaritan to see, else John would have taken her there.

She wonders if Sameen Grey’s apartment has been sold yet, or if it’s still empty, waiting for an owner that never existed. 

Root and Finch are already gathered on the sofa as John ushers her through the door, and she can see Bear lying close by, ears perked and alert. Once Root spots her, she moves as if pulled on a string, and doesn’t stop until she’s in front of Shaw, wrapping her arms tightly around the other woman. Shaw can feel Root’s tears against her neck as Root breathes her in, and she reminds herself to relax a bit in the taller woman’s arms. 

“Guess you got my memo, Sameen,” Root manages through a teary-eyed smile, and Shaw drags the corners of her mouth upwards a bit because Root has earned it.

She knows that John isn’t through assessing her. It’s not personal; Shaw knows John doesn’t want to be the one who distrusts her, but he will if no one else does. But now, she lets herself find the warmth that Root’s embrace is offering her, dwelling in it a moment longer than necessary before she pulls back. 

As soon as she does, Bear trots up to her, eyes brights and smiling, almost as if on cue. She can’t help but give his neck a good rubbing.

“So what did I miss?” Shaw asks, and Harold startles a bit. There’s already guilt on his face and she hasn’t accused him of anything. Yet. 

Finch doesn’t seem to want to say, but he does look at John. John is busy looking between her and Root. Finally, it’s Root who speaks, tilting her head to the left.

“Sorry, Sameen, but we’re a little busy right now.”

Shaw narrows her eyes. Samaritan. Or maybe a number. Either way, she’s annoyed that one supercomputer or another has already crashed her welcome back party.

-

At first, it’s easy to pretend that she’s mostly alright. John and Harold both seem okay with having her armed, but Shaw notices that John has taken to standing just a little closer to Finch whenever she is around. And no one can ignore the soft whining of Bear, sensing the tension in the air.

On one of the worst days, Shaw goes to the playground out of instinct. It’s dark out, so she doesn’t expect to see Root, and suddenly, Shaw is very unsure. She pulls out a gun, ready to redo it all over again. 

Root turns; all of them have developed a sixth sense for guns pointing at them. She sees Shaw and smiles. Sees the gun and her smile wavers a bit.

“Sameen?” she asks, confused, but unafraid, and something in Shaw recoils at the idea of never hearing Root’s voice say her name again. She can’t risk her. 

_“As long as I’m alive, you’ll never be safe.”_ It’s a simple statement Root doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t even breathe. _“Seven thousand simulations. I’ve killed a lot of people. But the one person I couldn’t kill.. was you. So I killed myself over and over again.”_

Slowly, Shaw draws up the gun so it’s pointing at her own head. 

_“And I rather do that here and now than to risk your life.”_

She hears Root’s sharp gasp and feels the fear in her eyes now. Shaw wants to laugh, because Root shouldn’t be afraid that the gun is pointing away from her. What she doesn’t expect is for Root to pull her own gun out, and point it at herself, using her life as a bargaining chip. 

_“Okay Shaw. Let’s play it your way. You can’t live with me. I can’t live without you. So if you die, I die, too.”_

Shaw runs several scenarios through her head and can’t find a plausible enough reason for why Samaritan would have Root kill herself for Shaw. So she locks the safety on her gun and lowers it and can’t bear to fully look at the blatant relief on Root’s face. Instead, she grabs Root’s gun to flick the safety on that one, and steals glances from her peripheral vision to remind herself that Root’s smile is as real as her tears. 

They go back to John’s apartment, and for a long time, Shaw sits in silence while Root waits for her. And then she begins to speak. 

-

It’s a few months before any of them would have preferred to reintroduce her to the field, but Shaw has recovered physically, if not psychologically. Harold hands her a new phone, if a bit reluctantly, and it's back to business as usual. After all, the numbers wait for no one, and now that she’s back in the subway, Shaw is getting a bit restless.

The Machine insists that she needs Harold and Root elsewhere, and they’ve taken Bear, so Shaw winds up stalking a number with John. She can feel the concern in his eyes every time he looks at her; he has lowered his guard a little around her, and truth be told, _she_ is the one who is uncomfortable with that. But he doesn’t ask, and she doesn’t offer. He knows that she has spoken with Root.

Of course their luck would have them wind up chasing their perp into a close off alleyway. John, curse his long legs, is faster than she is, and by the time she rounded the corner, he and the number both have their guns drawn and aimed. On instinct, Shaw draws and aims her gun too, and that is all the distraction John needs to disarm their suspect. But Shaw is not paying attention anymore.

For a moment, all she can see is the black of John’s suit jacket across his back, and that’s all it takes for her to feel sick at the weight of the gun in her hands. Before she even realizes it, she’s stripped the offending object, bullets pinging against the cement as she empties her magazine. 

It’s a stupid thing to do because there’s another gun-waving fool charging into the alleyway. She goes to raise her arm, but remembers that she just made her only weapon useless. She hears a soft grunt, and then must have spaced out a bit because the next thing she knows, John is in front her and kneecapping the guy. 

John is obviously fine because he’s standing and not breathing too hard, but there’s a patch of blood welling in the middle of his stark white shirt and all she can think is _red, red, red._

She’s not supposed to feel these things; that’s why she was so good at her job, but there’s something closely resembling panic and guilt as she stares at the red on John’s shirt. He catches her and shrugs a bit, offering “just a graze” like that excuses the blood oozing out of him, from too close to his heart. He doesn’t say anything else as he picks up the pieces of her gun, and he doesn’t tell Finch or Root what happened when they return to the subway. Bear, seeming able to sense his master’s injury anyway, pads up to John to put his head on John’s lap. Smiling softly at the dog, John scratched him behind the ears before sending Bear to Shaw.

It’s like he’s apologizing, but for what, she doesn’t know. She's pretty sure she should be the one apologizing; she’s the one who freaked out. But he doesn’t say anything, just offers the sympathy in his eyes, and she can’t find the words to thank him, so she turns her head away. 

-

She’s in Root’s bed in the subway, staring at the wall. Bear is on the opposite cot, hailing John’s command and guarding her, albeit a bit sleepily. Shaw feels a slight weight against her chest at the dog’s obedience, but doesn’t send him away. 

John himself is a mere few feet away, cleaning her gun, the one still in pieces because she never reassembled it. Shaw thinks it soothes him, not the fact that he’s cleaning _her_ gun, but the feeling of physically caring for something with his hands, even if it is something as destructive as a gun. At this point, she thinks none of them can afford to touch anything more harmless without it breaking.

She stares at the wall and thinks _I shot you in the back._ Doesn’t shape the words _I shot you and took your gun and left you helpless while you were bleeding out._ Doesn’t say _I’ve killed you seven thousand and fifty three times._

Instead, Shaw turns so she’s looking at John. His back is to her, and he has taken off his black jacket, revealing a broad expanse of white. Somehow, it makes her feel better, and Shaw finally closes her eyes. Bear’s quiet panting lulls her to sleep.

-

John jumps in front of her the same time Root does, but John is bigger, and not for the first time, Shaw hates that he’s so damn tall.

He reaches her first and pushes Shaw out of the way while he grabs Root and pivots them so that his body covers her. Two bullets hit him, one through his leg and another digs a nasty furrough across his right shoulder. John falls, and Shaw doesn’t even hesitate, just shoots all the gunmen between the eyes. Finch can be pissed at her later, now she needs to get John and Root off this roof, preferably without any more holes in either of them.

Both women turn back to John, who has taken off his suit jacket to press against his leg wound. 

“The one on my shoulder is not serious,” he rasps, “just a...”

“I swear to god, John, if you say _‘just a graze,’_ I am going to shoot you in your other leg right now.” Shaw bites out. Root smirks but refrains from laughing. 

John blinks up at Shaw, passive. She checks John’s shoulder, and he’s right; it’s an ugly wound that probably hurts like a bitch, but it’s not life threatening. She signals Root to get under his good shoulder while Shaw supports John’s other side. Together, they manage to get John standing again, and the three of them hobble back to the subway.

Root is lucky and only gets a furious glare from Shaw for trying to take a bullet for her, but since John is the one with the holes in him, Shaw focuses her attention on him. She takes John’s phone after she shoves him into a chair and calls Fusco, telling him that John won’t be at work tomorrow. John opens his mouth to protest, but Shaw growls “make that two days” into the phone and he shuts up. Fusco concedes without a fight, and Shaw sends him to clean up the mess of the three dead men up on the roof. 

That taken care of, Shaw turns back to John. Root has already gotten out the first aid kit. Shaw takes it from her and Root gives them both looks before walking towards the stairs, throwing “Call me when you two children have worked things out, okay?” over her shoulder. 

Shaw ignores her as she systematically stitches John up. He tries to stand up as she’s putting the med kit away, stabilizing himself with the desk next to him, and suddenly she doesn’t think, just lets the anger fuel her. Shaw clicks the safety off her gun and whips around, bringing her arm up. She lets herself be glad that John's suit jacket is soaked in blood, meaning he isn’t wearing it. 

John stills, seemingly resigned. This isn’t the first time she’s trained a gun on him, and he’s probably closing his eyes in the way that means he’s sighing. Minutes tick by and the only sound in the subway is their measured breathing. But then Shaw clicks the safety on her gun and lowers her arm.

“I did that. Seven thousand and fifty three times. I pointed a gun at your back. Except all those seven thousand and fifty three times, I actually pulled the trigger. You shouldn’t take a bullet for me, Reese.”

She sets the gun down right where she’s standing, and then carefully walks past John, who only glances at her briefly before trailing his eyes back to where her gun is resting. His eyes look far away, like he’s calculating something, and Shaw tells herself she’s fine with the fact that John doesn’t seem to be reacting to a _confession_ of her killing him _seven thousand and fifty three times._

He’s supposed to be better at emotions than her, but she should have figured that still places him years behind the rest of humanity. Whatever. Root is waiting for her upstairs, and Shaw thinks Root wouldn’t be opposed to fucking the until the empty feeling inside her fades a bit.

-

Shaw doesn’t think about the smell of gun oil the next time she picks up her weapon, or the fact that her magazine has already been replaced when she goes to reload it. 

-

John cooks a steak dinner out of the blue one day, and even Root visibly perks up at the offer. 

At least one of them has a chance at a normal career, Shaw thinks, amused by the idea of John in a chef’s hat. He already has on an apron and doesn’t seem embarrassed by it at the least. Root gave up teasing him after two minutes. Harold is out pretending to be a professor, borrowing Bear to encourage his students on exam day. It’s only the three of them in John’s apartment, which has somehow become a safehouse of sorts. 

Shaw thinks John is better at this. They finished eating a few minutes ago and John is washing the dishes. She knows he senses her leaning on the partition between the kitchen and the dining room, but he doesn’t seem to mind her eyes observing him.

Surprisingly, John doesn’t have any beer in his apartment, despite his cop cover identity. Shaw managed to convince Root to go get them a six-pack, but not before Root called into the kitchen “Don’t start the party without me!” with a wink at Shaw. Shaw could only stare and wonder when the two of them got so friendly before rolling her eyes.

“Shaw. Finch. Did you ever shoot him?” 

John's voice is soft and it takes her a moment to realize his words were meant for her.

“Finch?” 

She should have expected this question. 

“Well.. sometimes I’d almost hurt him. But he was alive in the end, every time.” 

His sigh of relief is almost inaudible, just slightly stronger than a normal breath out. 

“And Root?” 

Shaw thinks it’s incredible she was the only one who didn’t get to see the tolerance between Root and John mellow into a genuine friendship. She pauses, wondering how much she wanted to tell John. 

“Well. Usually, I would shoot you. Take your gun. Make sure you were dying, or dead, then leave.” 

John doesn’t even flinch.

“Root would find me,” she continues, “and tell me we needed to go to the subway, where Harold would be. Seven thousand times, and I didn’t let her take me there. The rest doesn’t matter. I didn’t hurt Root.” _I only hurt you._

John rinses his hands and dries them. The dishes are done. He doesn’t look at her, wordlessly passing her a towel. Shaw catches a glimpse of his face anyway. She thinks the lighting is playing tricks on her, because he almost looks relieved. 

“Well,” he says, and this time John does turn towards her. He twitches a corner of his lips up, his face playful, “it’s not like that’s the first time you shot me. You need to do a better job on the killing part though, Shaw.”

Before he leaves the kitchen, she hears quiet “Thank you” and she has to stop herself from crushing the plate she is holding because he actually sounds _grateful._

It’s like Root pointing a gun at herself all over again, but this time, Shaw thinks she knows enough about _feelings_ to stay silent and let him walk away. 

She looks up at John’s boring, white kitchen ceiling and convinces herself her blurry vision is from exhaustion and not tears. Shaw wonders where Root is with the beer as she finishes up drying. She could definitely use a drink right now, and the last time she checked, the corner store was just down the street.

-

A sandwich appears on Root’s bed one day and Root doesn’t even spare it a glance, except once to tsk at it with exasperation. “It’s for you, Sameen,” she tells her when she sees Shaw by the curtains leading to her room. Root’s tone is unconcerned, like Shaw should already know why a sandwich on Root’s bed would be for her. 

Shaw opens her mouth to ask, but Finch apparently doesn’t want her to get answers because she immediately hears him call “Miss Groves” from the computer console. Root raises an eyebrow, brushing really close as she passes Shaw with a giggled “love to hang, sweetheart, but daddy’s calling!” Before Shaw can stop her, Root pecks her on the cheek, and then she’s gone. 

Rolling her eyes, Shaw sets herself on Root’s bed and inspects the sandwich closer. It seems homemade, considering the ziploc bag. Root’s mild annoyance earlier tells Shaw she had nothing to do with it, and Shaw seriously believes Harold wouldn’t know what to do with two slices of bread if a toaster were in front of him. Actually, he’d probably try taking the toaster apart, and forget about the bread.

That leaves John. Shaw thinks John still likes her enough to not poison her. Root seems to think the sandwich is harmless, and it’s not the first time John has provided food, although it’s usually Harold that he brings it to. 

She opens up the ziploc and takes a bite. 

It’s _good_. Like his steak dinner was. 

Shaw doesn’t know if she was expecting a different outcome.

-

She tells John “Thanks” later, without premise, and gets an actual smile in return. It’s shyer than something happy on his face should be, she thinks, but not completely alien, and a little spark of pride flares at the accomplishment. 

-

Bear probably enjoyed the carrot cake the most, to Harold’s dismay. 

Finch huffs in annoyance while John appears to listen, wearing his “you caught me” face that has his lower lip slightly protruding in an unapologetic pout. He’s petting and praising the dog the entire time Harold is fussing, obviously not feeling as terrible as Finch wants him to for tampering with Bear’s diet. 

Shaw personally doesn’t like sweets, but she did end up hovering by the cake that was placed on the stray bench in the subway earlier. A blind man would not have missed the way John perked up at that, even if he didn’t shift at all. 

Sighing to herself, Shaw took a slice, taking a few big bites. It wasn’t bad, but just not something she preferred eating. Root is out somewhere, so Bear ended up with her unfinished leftovers in his stomach. John didn’t seem offended, but somehow, Finch found out, which led them to this scene.

Finch finishes his admonition and John doesn’t miss a beat, just asks Harold if he would like a slice, too. “It’s homemade, Finch. Even the dog likes it.”

Shaw’s laugh is loud and both John and Harold turn to look at her. All of them are startled, unsure of what to do.

Then Harold moves, shuffling towards the bench to get himself a small portion of the accursed cake. He takes a bite and abruptly turns back to John with amazement in his eyes, like he didn’t expect John to also be able to _bake_. The fiasco with Bear is quickly forgotten, especially when Root comes back. John hands her a slice he saved and she surprises him with a peck on the check after she finishes.

The air in the subway feels lighter somehow, and Shaw catches herself smiling again.

-

More food shows up at the subway. 

Shaw wonders if the amount is John’s way of telling her she needs to regain weight and muscle mass. Even Bear seems to know that the sandwiches in ziploc bags and containers full of casserole or whatever are for her, even though the food never shows up on Shaw’s bed. Root’s exasperation increases with every odd placement, and Shaw catches her shooting daggers at John after he leaves a bowl of pasta too close to The Machine’s servers.

Root flirtation tactics increase in direct correlation to the food appearing in the subway, but overall, she seems content to let John feed Shaw. And herself. It would probably take a good fucking to get Root to forgive her if Shaw let it slip that Root really likes his spaghetti sauce.

-

“Hope you’re not trying to woo me with food too, John,” Root purrs, after he hands her a complicated cookie monstrosity. Bear immediately comes sniffing, nuzzling around, trying to get some sugar.

Shaw stirs from her bed. It’s early in the morning, but John is already at the subway station for some reason. She makes her way towards the trio, and grimaces when she sees what Root is holding. 

Out of curiosity, Shaw takes a bite of the confection, and almost immediately hands it back to Root. John looks at her with a raised eyebrow, letting Shaw know how unnecessary her action was, and then breaks a small chunk away to slip to Bear. “Good boy,” he murmurs, as the dog continues licking his hand.

To Root, he asks “Is it good?” Root playfully gives a grudging “yes” and John holds out a small container for her.

“Could you give this to Fusco?”

“Fusco?” Shaw asks, puzzled, while Root shifts to cross her arms and shake her head, her reproach clear. “Why, did you shoot someone recently?”

John has the decency to look down, even if his facial expression remains blank. He focuses on giving Bear’s ears a good scratching.

Shaw huffs a small laugh. “Don’t be such a wuss, Reese. Give ‘em to the big guy yourself; he’s _your_ partner.” 

John looks at her with an unmistakable pout, and Shaw finds herself chuckling again just for the heck of it. Then she surprises herself with an offer. 

“C’mon. I’ll come with you. I owe Fusco a visit, and you coffee, anyway.”

John blinks, clearly caught off guard. Lazily, he rasped “Didn’t know you were so friendly with Fusco” before turning back to the dog, his face hidden. 

“Coffee?” comes the question, slightly hesitant, and Shaw curses to herself at the slip. In a louder voice, she says “Yeah, coffee. Caffeine. Cup o’ Joe. ‘Java’ for the nerds,” Root rolls her eyes here, “Starbucks for the kids.”

Shaw pauses and waits for John to say “no.” Strangely, it’s Root who encourages him. 

She beams a smile, and chimes in a voice far cheerier than necessary “I’d think it’d be fun, John. Don’t you? Sameen has never asked _me_ out on a coffee date.” She continues to aim her peppy smile at John.

John seems to think for a moment. Then he pats Bear firmly one last time, and shrugs a shoulder at Shaw. At Root, he directs his biggest, most charming and lighthearted parody of a grin, before adding “Sure, _Sameen_. Let’s go before your girlfriend gets more jealous and shoots me too.”

Shaw rolls her eyes and stalks towards the stairs, jamming a cap on her head and pulling the brim low. 

-

It was only until afterwards that Shaw realizes in that moment, she didn’t react at all to John _joking_ about her gunning him down.

-

Fusco gives John a hard time and grudgingly accepts the cookies, but Shaw could tell he has already forgiven him. 

He also takes one look between Shaw and John and tells his partner to “catch up on that new lead.”

“Is that what you’re calling John blatantly not doing his day job these days?” Shaw slips in and John waggles his eyebrows at her mockingly.

“Guess we’re having coffee after all,” John mumbles at Shaw and Fusco stares at them incredulously.

“Coffee?” he exclaims, and he sounds almost scandalized, “You mean you guys aren’t out chasing someone Glasses told you to?”

John turns to Fusco and asks “Does that mean I’m not allowed to leave the playground now, Lionel?” Fusco huffs in annoyance. John’s voice is teasing, but even Shaw knows he’ll sit down and do the paperwork piled up on his desk if Lionel tells him “no.”

Instead, he waves them off. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Shoo. Could use a good cup myself, now that you mention it. What did Tall, Dark, and Stormy do to earn one from you?” The question he directions at Shaw and Fusco pauses patiently, actually waiting for an answer.

Shaw mutters irritably to herself, almost regretting her offer all together. Why is everyone so shocked about her getting John a freaking cup of coffee? 

Blandly, she states “He got himself shot” and Fusco chuckles and chuckles and chuckles. “Leave it to Wonderboy,” he guffaws.

Shaw looks at John and knows not to tell Fusco she isn’t joking. 

-

Shaw stares out the window, the brim of her hat obscuring her vision. She isn’t really looking at anything at all; she just doesn’t want to look at John, who’s sitting across from her, his eyes nonchalantly scouting the area. 

It’s very unlikely they would be in danger here. The soft jazz music and the low buzz of conversations around them will hide her voice, and her face is half-hidden by her baseball cap. She doesn’t blame him for being alert though; the booth they’re sitting at is a dead spot, not that Shaw is planning to tell the manager.

Shaw thinks about how John is a cop now and how amusing it is that he hasn’t been fired yet. John must have tested Fusco’s cache of forgiveness time after time for something as simple as shooting a perp, but Fusco would forgive John for a lot of things. It’s the others who haven’t caught on yet that amaze her. 

John isn’t a cop. He is either too forgiving, or too ruthless, and she thinks that why Carter was always so exasperated at him. If only she could see him now. It still makes Shaw angry that someone as decent as Carter is the one dead out of all of them. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” John’s voice brings her back to the booth, and she turns her head so she can see him tipping the last sip of his drink into his mouth from the corner of her eye.

She signals to the waitress, figuring John could probably use another cup. It’s still early in the day and neither of them have shot anyone yet.

“Only a penny?” she replies with a raised eyebrow, a challenge. Her cup is still full, on the tepid side of lukewarm. She brings it to her lips. Might as well not waste money.

“It’s an expression, Shaw. People use them sometimes.” He gives her a smile, but she turns back to the window. The silence stretches again.

Before it becomes too unbearing, the waitress comes over and asks for their order. Shaw smiles innocently at the young lady and orders the sweetest-sounding drink from the menu, and then raises an eyebrow at John. He returns her look with an unimpressed one, and then smiles at the waitress too.

“Could you heat up my friend’s drink? It’s gotten a bit cold.” Shaw rolls her eyes at the way the girl, “Noor” reads her nametag, blushes. 

“Sure!” Noor chirps, and then she glances back at Shaw. “Umm, miss, would you please remove your cap? We have a no-hat policy..” the girl trails off and Shaw can tell she’s nervous. Shaw has no illusions about the number of customers that have retorted back telling Noor to take off her hijab. 

Keeping her smile on her face, Shaw sets the hood of her sweatshirt back, and takes off her cap. John shoots her a worried look, but she waves him off. “Sorry about that,” she tells Noor, and the way the girl beams at her is worth it.

“Dead spot,” she tells John after Noor walks away. John still looks uncertain, but Shaw has already taken off her hat, and it’d be strange to have the waitress walk back and find her with it on again. 

Resultantly, he changes the topic. “So tell me. Coffee.” 

Shaw growls a little and snaps back “What about coffee, _Reese_?” much harsher than intended, tired off the subject.

It could be just her imagination, but Shaw thinks John looks chastised, like he’s considering just not talking for the rest of their little outing. He mumbles “You never told me why you owed me coffee,” an apologetic expression on his face. Shaw relents. It isn’t that she wants him to clam up, it’s that she isn’t good at this part, and she’s still not sure exactly why she decided she owed him coffee in the first place. 

Luckily, Noor returns at this moment and they both smile at her, a knee-jerk reflex. She sets their mugs down, sees that Shaw has kept her hat off, and gives them a grin of her own, before walking off. If Noor sensed the slight tension in the air, she didn’t mention it. 

Once upon a time Shaw’s father told her that honestly was the best policy. Her father is dead, but Shaw guesses it couldn’t hurt to try.

“You were going to buy me coffee, but I shot you. So I figured..” She trails off, eyes trailing back to the glass, and shrugging a shoulder at him. “You were very insistent on coffee too. Never offered me anything else.”

“Maybe I was just too scared of Root to offer to buy you a drink?” She hears John snipe, in that raspy voice of his, and Shaw huffs. She drags her gaze to his, and finds that John is smirking cheekily. She lifts a corner of her lips up, too, mockingly mirroring him, and he eggs her on. Soon they’re both smiling at each other, and somehow, Shaw breaks first. She huffs again, but this time, it’s a small laugh. 

It’s so bizarre, she thinks, that she told this man in front of her that she essentially murdered him seven thousand times, and he’s still sitting there, safeties on, snickering at a stupid joke with her. _Too forgiving, or too ruthless, _Shaw thinks.__

____

____

And Samaritan knows John will always be on the forgiving side in regards to Shaw. 

-

John was right; she shouldn’t have taken her hat off. Samaritan would have found her sooner or later, but she shouldn’t have helped them even that slightest bit.

It didn’t even take five minutes after they walked out of the cafe before John sharply yanks Shaw into an alleyway, down several turns, and then shoves her to the ground. Five gunshots sound by the time she’s up, her gun readied, and she curses. Shaw sees three men fall and doesn’t pay them much attention, focusing on taking out the other shooters. Her own spray of gunshots results in multiple groans. She turns to John to pass him a grin, adrenaline filling her blood. 

Shaw sees the panic on his face a second too late and that’s all the warning she gets before she feels a body forcing her against the wall. She flings her arm out in surprise and hears a grunt of pain from John as her gun catches his side. Three shots ring in tandem, and soon, the bulletstorm is over as quickly as it began.

“Dammit, Reese, I told you not to play the hero,” Shaw growls as she pushes John’s tall frame off herself and stalks toward the fallen agents, kicking guns farther away here and there. John doesn’t answer. 

“Come on, there’s probably backup on the way, let’s g--” the words die in her mouth as she turns and sees John half-propped against the brick wall she was just against, his white shirt drenched red around his torso. The index of his left hand is still wrapped around the trigger of his gun, but his right is pressed firmly against his side. 

He sees Shaw and opens his mouth, lips forming words, but soft coughs stealing them. Finally, she hears a breathy “Shaw..” and she waits, absolutely still. She sees John struggle for consciousness, but he loses battle and his eyes flutter close. One last sigh, then he sags down towards the pavement, the movement almost graceful. All Shaw can focus on is the blood flecked on his lips and chin, rivets forming small puddles beneath him.

Everything freezes. There’s a heavily pressure building underneath her skin, right below her left ear, and she can’t help but lift a hand up to rub against it. There is no bandage there, but that means nothing. 

A slew of what-ifs stirs up as another feeling tightens around Shaw’s ribs, forcing the air out of her lungs, and it terrifies Shaw that she can’t say with certainty that it not her who shot John, not when her hand is wrapped tightly around a gun that just fired a shot.

Her grip on her gun shakes, tensing and loosening, and then back again. She can’t be sure it wasn’t her. And she’s so fucking _tired_. Seven thousand simulations and Shaw can’t fathom why Samaritan chooses this one to make _Reese_ feel more like _John_ than any of the others. But she can’t be sure the hole in his gut wasn’t her fault. 

She clenches her teeth, and then the hand around her gun. Slowly, almost unconsciously, she raises it, pressing the muzzle against the flesh under her chin. Dragging the barrel across her skin, she let it sit for a moment against the spot underneath her ear. Then thinking better of it, she lets it travel higher up. She isn’t so sure she shouldn’t shoot.

Her phone buzzing angrily in her pocket startles her enough into stumbling, bursts of jerky movements as uncoordinated as her thoughts. Shaw falls heavily, gun clattering, and Root’s voice fills her ears, tinny and small, but insistent.

“Sameen? _Sameen? _” she hears, and when Shaw replies with “Root,” her steady voice is a surprise.__

____

____

“Oh, thank God. Listen Sameen, there are Samaritan agents headed to where you are. Are you okay?”

Shaw blinks for several moments and thinks how strange it is that Samaritan is having Root warn her about its teams. “I’m fine. But, um, Reese. Oh fuck, _John is dying._ ” 

And then she’s scrambling towards John, ripping off her hoodie and pressing it forcefully on the leaking bullet wound. With one hand, Shaw snatches her phone out of her back pocket and hits the speaker button, shouting over the clamoring voices, “Root, call an ambulance right now. And call Fusco. Make something up, I don’t know what; just let him know that Detective Riley has been shot.”

She hears an exclamation in Finch’s voice, a brief, muffled argument, and rustling in the background before Root’s voice is back in her ears, rushed and marred with white noise.

“Sameen? Wait, I’m coming to your location, okay? Harold’s calling an ambulance and the police, just wait for me.” 

Shaw can feel Root pausing over the phone, and then she’s talking again, her voice much steadier. 

“Listen to me, Sameen. This isn’t a simulation. If you trust me-- Sameen, if you _love_ me, please don’t do as you did in all those simulations. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” 

Shaw makes an affirmative noise and Root’s relieved sigh is audible even through an engine revving aggressively and a chorus of blaring of horns. 

Shaw focuses back on John and tries to ignore the way his pulse has slowed down dramatically. There’s too much blood around him that should be inside him, and she pushes her hoodie hardier against his gunshot wound in frustration.

She thinks even if this John is just another simulation, saving him must mean something. His sandwiches and pasta and casseroles and cakes and cookies and _her_ cup of coffee must have meant something.

“John Reese, don’t fucking die,” she demands forcefully, her voice hard even as the space between her fingers grow redder. “Listen, Rees--John. If you die, I’m going to blow my brains out, so don’t you fucking die.” She pauses and thinks of the things that make him laugh.

“Root will murder you if I die. To tell you the truth, I don’t really have a preference right now, but Root likes my brain where it is. So you better fucking make it out of this alive, or hope to hell that I’m still hallucinating on the shit Samaritan put me under.” 

As if summoned, Root appears by her side, giving her an unsubtle once over. _“I’m fine,”_ Shaw snarls pointedly, and she thinks she’s entitled. Root flashes her a not-smile, already pulling off layers and handing them to Shaw.

“Fusco is en route,” Root tells Shaw, “In five minutes, we have to go.”

Shaw blinks, sure she didn’t hear that correctly. She motions to the sanguinary pile that is John, her hand still dripping with his blood. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

Root’s face is serious. “Like I said, Fusco will be here. He’s telling us to go, too.” 

Shaw opens her mouth, but Root cuts her off before she can say anything. “Shaw, there’s going to be a very large pack of cops swarming this area in less than five minutes. They can’t find us here.” 

She motions at Shaw’s gun and the other bodies around them. “They’ll arrest you. _I’m not leaving you again,_ and my current cover doesn't have any strings she can pull.” 

Shaw almost wants to dare her, but then Root is by John’s head, running a hand through his hair. Gently, she hears her murmur “I don’t want to leave him either.” 

It still amazes Shaw how sincere Root looks, her eyes full of worry for a man she would have let rot nine months ago. 

“He helped me look for you, you know,” and Root’s voice is soft, coaxing. “He doesn’t want to lose you either.” 

Shaw can’t say anything that she wants to that revelation. She knows Root is blatantly playing the guilt card, but Shaw thinks telling Root that John is an idiot would be inappropriate right now. 

“Sameen..” Root hesitates, her good ear slightly tilted upwards, “Fusco is here.”

Shaw curses, and quickly reconsiders the situation. She hates that Root is making her choose between staying with John and risking Root. It was so much easier when Shaw could have just shot herself and saved them both. 

Yanking her belt off her waist, Shaw hastily straps their ruined clothes around John’s torso, as tightly as she can. Then she nods jerkily at Root and stalks further into the alleyway, disappearing around one of the many turns. Root takes one last look at John’s sickly pale face, another silent apology, and then slinks down the path Shaw has chosen.

Neither of them talk as their shadows get swallowed by red and blue flashing lights. 

-

Fusco doesn’t call until Shaw and Root are both in the subway, bloody clothes changed and hands scrubbed. Bear whines worriedly, pawing at the bloodstain pile. At one point, he picks up Shaw’s splattered tank top, trots over to the bottom of the subway stairs, and drops it on the first step, as if to ask why John hasn’t returned yet. None of them have the heart to tell Bear to stop when he does it again with Shaw’s pants.

It’s Harold’s phone that rings, and he answers immediately, the panic in his greeting audible.

“Detective Fusco, how is John?”

Finch listens intensely, and his sharp sigh of relief is the only indication to Shaw and Root that John is still alive. Shaw growls in frustration. She jerks her phone out of her pocket, and glares at it accusingly until Lionel’s voice is echoing loudly throughout the subway. Root passes her a small smile, and then taps her good ear, an apology from The Machine.

“He’s not looking good though,” and Fusco’s resigned tone is more discouragement than the long list of conditions that he’s probably reciting from a chart. Shaw keeps a note of everything, but doesn’t comment. 

Instead, she asks “Fusco, where are you?” Lionel doesn’t even hesitate before he answers. Shaw looks at Root before pulling on a clean t-shirt, and then reaching for her jacket. “I’m on my way.” Harold opens his mouth, alarmed, but Fusco beats him to it.

He pauses for half a second, and then mumbles clumsily, “Wait. Aren’t there people after you? John’s still in surgery, and he probably won’t be awake for a few days.” The unsaid “if he makes it” rings as loudly as Fusco’s concern for their safety.

“I’ll be fine, Lionel,” and she dares him to contradict her. After a moment, she suggests “Maybe make something up for the hospital staff? They have rules against strange visitors, right?” 

Fusco grumbles, but he gives an affirmative. The line beeps, and Finch turns around to face her.

“I want to go with you.” Shaw doesn’t want to be the one to tell him “no.”

It’s Root who speaks up. “You can’t Harold, not yet. We don’t know if it’s safe.” She turns to Shaw. “I’m going too, Sameen.”

Finch draws his eyebrows down, as if to argue some more, but then reconsiders. “Let me know as soon as you can.” All of them know it’s more of a command than a request.

Root jams another gun into her waistband. Her reassuring smile is as sharp as the knife she slips up her sleeve. “We’ll keep him safe, Harry, I promise.” Shaw pockets another magazine of bullets just to emphasize. 

Before she leaves, Shaw feels a gentle bump against her leg. This time Bear has a pair of _John’s_ socks in his mouth, and he lays them carefully across her open hand with a soft bark. They’re mismatched, but Shaw still feels a wetness start behind her eyes. “I know, boy,” she murmurs, taking the socks and stuffing them into a jacket pocket, “I know.” After a good scratch behind his ears, Shaw sends him to Finch. “Just a little longer, okay?”

-

“You’re the Sameen Riley that the detective earlier mentioned?” the assistant at the front desk asks. Shaw nods, and fiddles with the zipper of her jacket, trying to look a little bit more jittery. Normal people are nervous when their brother is on an operating table, right? 

“And her?” the woman questions, nodding at Root. Shaw turns to her, unsure how to answer, but Root has already chimed in.

“Samantha Whistler,” she says with a smile that’s just polite enough to ward off suspicion, and explains “I got my dad’s name” without prompting. 

“I suppose the ‘Samwell’ in Samwell Jonathan Riley isn’t just a coincidence, huh?” 

“It’s why John goes by his middle name. Less confusing. Isn’t that right, Sam?” 

On cue, Shaw stretches her lips, a parody of a smile but the lady chuckles anyway. She types in a few more entries before waving them through. As soon as they’re out of sight, Shaw scowls at Root.

“Okay, since when has Reese ever looked like a ‘Samwell’,” she hisses. 

Root shrugs. “He was an international spy. I’m sure he can pull off ‘Sam’ at least.”

“Right, like there aren’t enough Sams around here already?” Shaw gestures at herself, and then glares at Root pointedly.

Root shakes her head, amused. “The Machine thought it was funny, Shaw. Let her have her fun.”

“Does it think John’s bullet wound is funny too?” Shaw snaps back, and Root winces.

“That’s just mean, Sameen. She cares about him too.” Shaw rolls her eyes, but Root doesn’t respond, just nudges her so she’s looking up. 

The hallway that they’re standing in is on the lonelier side of homely and sleek, the brown of bench frames a stark contrast against the pale green walls. Fusco’s large frame is seen alongside the emptiness, and he pushes himself off a wall when he spots them. 

“Wonderboy’s name is ‘Samwell’ now?” Fusco asks lightheartedly, and they play along. “It doesn’t exactly suit him--”

Shaw smirks in Root’s direction, and hears a sigh in return.

“--I guess he can pull off ‘Sam’ though,” Fusco finishes and Shaw rolls her eyes. She doesn’t bother looking towards Root, but can picture her triumphant expression anyway. 

Shaw shakes her head, which is a wrong move because she catches the double doors in front of them. She steels herself, and then asks, “How is he?” Instantly, she feels solemnity leeching the mirth from their banter. 

Fusco pulls his lips back, a grimace. His eyes tell her all the bad news, but he starts speaking anyway. 

“Not well. Didn’t change since over the phone, unfortunately, but..” Fusco trails off, squinting at something on his phone, and then gesturing to it. “Some guy named Thornhill is throwing his weight around. Apparently this character is some big shot at this hospital, owns a lot of the shares, and is interested in our bullet-magnet friend.”

“Thornhill,” Shaw echoes. She turns to Root and raises an eyebrow, to which Root nods back. 

Fusco notices the exchange and grumbles, “What? You know this Thornhill or something?”

“Or something,” Root chirps back, pulling out her phone. Lionel waves his hand in the universal “are you going to tell me more?” manner, and Root smiles back ambiguously. “John’s safe for now. I’m going to call Harold. He wanted to be here too, but,” she leans closer to him, as if telling Fusco a secret, “you can never be too careful, right?”

Shaw almost laughed at Fusco’s baffled stare. “What is that supposed to mean? The rest of us are chopped liver?”

“No, but John’s might be,” she slips in, relieved that the tension loosened once again. Maybe Root’s robot friend has its redeeming qualities after all.

“Har har. So what do we do now?” Fusco glances back at the double doors, as if he could will them to open.

Shaw walks over to a bench. 

“We wait.” 

-

“Harold Samson Whistler?”

“Ah, yes. It’s a.. family tradition.”

-

Finch sits on the bench outside of John’s room every moment he can, Bear on his best behavior underneath him. In some moments, he’ll read from his book, or from his stack of student assignments. In others, the halls echo with the tap-tap of computer keys. Occasionally, Finch will stop pretending to be doing anything at all. Shaw knows this because she’s been patrolling John wing, setting up camp at the corner of the corridor that makes surveying each exit easiest. 

It’s one of those times when Harold is staring at the opposite wall, clearly not seeing anything, and the only sign of life within him is a hand absently stroking Bear. If she were a stronger person, she would walk over to him, offering the comfort of her presence. Instead, she turns and hopes The Machine has a new mission for Root. The numbers wait for no one, and right now, Shaw can stand to solve a problem by shooting it. 

-

Of course she’s the only one not there when the bastard wakes up. John’s nurse, a young Asian male, is checking his vitals. John has the gall to smile, eyes unfocused, before they slip closed again. Jian smiles back, letting Shaw know that John is not in any immediate danger. He also warns her that John might wake again but not be fully aware of his surroundings, considering the amount of morphine in his system right now. Shaw supposes John must be the luckiest bastard in the world to have Jian in the room because shooting him in front of a nurse after he just survived a severe gunshot wound might be bad form, and Jian seems nice. 

-

John wakes again to Root playing with a strand of Shaw’s hair. Shaw is slouched in a chair next to her, lighting dozing. She’s in a good mood and doesn’t bat Root’s hand away. 

It’s in that moment that Jian decides to check in on John. He walks into the room just as Root leans uncomfortably closer to Shaw. Shaw opens one eye, daring Root to kiss her. Jian clears his throat.

Root turns away, hosting a broad smile as she greets Jian. “And mister,” she continues teasingly, “we’re sisters.” 

He stares at her incredulously, gauging whether or not to take her words at face value. 

“They’re close,” John adds, and Jian throws up his hands in surrender. 

“I’m just here to check up on you, man, whatever.” 

-

“It’s not your fault, you know.” He turns his head to look at her, and she forces herself to look at his eyes and not the dozens of wires attached to his body. The hospital gown is not doing him any favors and she tells him. His lips twitch, but she can tell he isn’t deterred. They’re really going to do this while John’s laid out in a hospital bed, and Shaw can’t even run away because she told Finch that she’ll keep him safe while he briefly returns to maintaining his cover identity. 

“Shaw?” he questions, and she clenches her teeth. She wonders if he has a death wish.

“I took off my hat,” she says. Doesn’t say, _But I shot you. Seven thousand and fifty three times._

“Better than Noor taking off her hijab.” He looks at her, eyes wide, and something hurts in her gut that he thinks getting shot is better than being cruel to a stranger. She’s still trying to figure out what to say when he suddenly asks “How’s Bear?”

She can tell by the way he’s looking at her that he’s not actually asking about the dog. But this, _this_ she can do, even if it makes her a coward. 

“He misses your cooking,” she grunts out, false exasperating in her eyes. They way John’s eyes brighten and lips slip into a genuine smile at that is almost worth forcing herself to give him her own. 

___I’m sorry,_ she almost says into the delicate something forming between their stretched lips, _I’m sorry I shot you seven thousand and fifty three times, and I’m sorry I can’t be sure this wasn’t the seven thousand and fifty fourth._ But something wet sticks those words in her throat, burning at her eyes and nose. 

She thinks he hears her anyway.

-

“I bought coffee,” Shaw greets him from his door, inducing a raised eyebrow.

“I’m not allowed,” John tells more, his cadence question-like.

“It’s decaf. And the good stuff.” She lifts up the multiple trays. He stares, doubtful of the stack of cups facing him.

“You didn’t exactly tell me your order. So I, uh, got a few.”

John’s answering grin is worth all the awkwardness of her maneuvering multiple hot drinks down the crowded streets of New York City.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know, I wrote this while the show was still airing (that's why some of the dialogue is directly from the show) and then forgot about it. Hopefully there are some people in the fandom that'll still enjoy this? Let me know what y'all think!
> 
> Also this isn't beta-ed so I'm sorry for any spelling or grammar mistakes.


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